The Shelf Life of Our Invisible Names

And when they come swallowing elsewhere
They empty our graves of our arrangements
They leave our bones to the chronicles of cyborg clerics
Ashamed of who has sold us little of all we own
And envious, too, of who we leave all the empty boxes to
Good, good, afternoon, cerulean you, draining rivers
where the fisherman was said to feed five thousand with a fraction
of someone’s loaves and two fish. This is where, perhaps, to ash is better.
Go and lay down where? This early life with blooded hands and tags.
My hungry tomb eats nothing and I’m carnivorous at once.